On Bank Accounts and Money Trees

Jan 6 2012

Somewhere between that fender-bender a few weeks ago and forgetting to pay my daughter’s dance tuition all fall (ALL *gasp* FALL), my bank account has suddenly dropped a few pounds.

In fact, I’d say my bank account is looking incredibly svelt. Nice and trim, sashaying around my house all “I’m SO much skinnier than YOU” and “Did you see me try on that Size 2? It was totally baggy” and “REALLY? You CAN’T fit into your high school cheerleading uniform?! That is SO WEIRD because mine fits GREAT.”

True story. I swear by everything that is holy that I’d strangle her if I didn’t need so desperately to keep her alive.

You know what my problem is? NO WAIT! Don’t tell me! (You might list too many things.)

My problem is I lack foresight.

I mean, sure, I can see a preschool child in slippery socks heading too fast for the corner of a wall, and I can almost always deploy some combination of Super Speed, Super Strength, and Super Wrench-Out-My-Shoulder to get to that wall in time to prevent an emergency room bill and more forehead stitches.  BUT I can’t manage to look at, oh, all of my BILLS for which I’m, you know, BILLED IN WRITING and then actually pay them on time.

Lack of foresight, I tell you.

And reading. Lack of reading. Which, as a writer, is pretty ironic.

Because if I HAD foresight, I would’ve planted that darn money tree upon the adoption referral of our first child more than thirteen years ago, which SURELY would’ve produced bucket-loads of money by now.

Forget about an Easy Button. I want a Do-Over Button. And a GIANT money tree big enough to build my kids an intricate Victorian tree house with a staircase and a flushing toilet.

Actually, never mind about the toilet, because we all know that I’d have to climb that staircase myself to make sure that the toilet ever gets flushed. They can just pee off of the balcony, instead. After all, it’s important to be realistic when planning the house that’s going in my money tree.

You probably know that I rarely-to-never dispense advice because I don’t know what the heck I’m doing. But if you’re a brand new mama, I’m making the exception right now that proves the rule, because this is freaking awesome advice:


I guarantee that thirteen years from now, when the autobody repair shop calls, and the very nice office manager from your daughter’s dance studio calls… and your microwave calls to let you know that buttons numbered 4, 5, 6, and 7 are broken (seriously)… you will thank your lucky stars that you had the foresight to plant that darn tree.

Yours truly,